


Sticky Fingers

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:38:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I mean, he's a bitchy, nasty fucking – fucking emo kid. And, and he smells. Like, not as bad as you. But still, pretty bad."</i> Douchebag!fic, or alternatively an Everyone Is an Asshole College AU. In which Frank and Bert fight over Gerard while refusing to admit to doing any such thing, and Gerard is definitely up to something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticky Fingers

_i._  
 _I Need An Easy Friend (With A Hand To Lend)_    


   
Bert's first thought is that there's something about the dude's expression which seems to suggest that the sheer _effort_ involved in being so incredibly bored could prove fatal at any second.  
   
His second thought is that this is going to be _fun_.  
   
He elbows Quinn in the ribs. Quinn starts, slopping a good half of the vodka in his red plastic cup over his lap. Bert waits patiently through the several seconds Quinn spends cursing inventively at him, then says, "Look. Over there, ten o' clock."  
   
Quinn turns his head and lifts an eyebrow disapprovingly. "The blonde chick? Really?"  
   
"No, fucking – over there, dude that looks like that kid from _The Addams Family_."  
   
"The fat kid with the buzz cut?"  
   
"No! The creepy little girl, dude that looks like her."  
   
"...Oh, wait, I see him. That's _two_ o' clock, you fucking moron, Jesus fucking Christ."  
   
"Whatever. What'll you give me?"  
   
Quinn seems to be considering, having given up on trying to blot the vodka spillage. His eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side appraisingly. He makes a noncommittal noise.  
   
"My last smoke if you can make him blush, that chick with the blue hair's number if you can make him leave."  
   
"Rules?"  
   
"No public nudity, nothing he could sue you for."  
   
"Done."  
   
Bert waits a beat for a lull in the conversations of the people around them, then sticks his thumb and finger in his mouth and lets out the loudest, most obnoxious wolf whistle he can muster.  
   
The guy looks right at Bert, but then again, so does nearly everyone else in sight. Bert ignores them and puts on his best alarming leer. The dude responds by giving Bert a look of boundless disdain that he _has_ to have practiced in front of a mirror, seriously – and then makes his way through the party crowd to where Bert and Quinn are taking up an entire three-person couch. There's an easy swing in his hips, and Bert's a little... thrown. That is not blushing _or_ leaving. Bert's expecting him to perch on the edge of the couch or kind of stand awkwardly over them, but no, not this guy. He goes right in for the kill, straddling Bert's lap, bracketing his hips with his knees.  
   
His hands settle on Bert's shoulders, and he flashes a sharp, predatory smile.  
   
And so begins the most bizarre game of chicken Bert's ever played, because he is _not_ going to beaten this easily, okay. _Alright, then, Wednesday_ , he thinks, _I see your straddling and I raise you..._  
   
He gets his hands on the dude's ass and – wow. That's a nice ass. That's a _really_ nice ass.  
   
The guy pushes into the touch a little, his smile widening. He leans in, his mouth hot by Bert's ear.  
   
"That's all you got, motherfucker? Disappointing," he murmurs, smirking, then pulls back again, rolling his hips and moaning like a fucking porn star. "Oh, oh, _oh_. Come on, baby, don't _tease_ ," he whines, drawing the word out. This is – this is fucking weird, no one actually sounds like that; this guy's so utterly shameless, like belongs on a screen or something, and that's somehow so much hotter than it really should be. Out of the corner of his eye, Bert sees people awkwardly moving away, sees Quinn looking torn between cracking the fuck up and getting his dick out.  
   
It's a really fucking unpleasant surprise when he realizes that this dude – Bert's going to have to find out his name at some point – is not only playing, he's _winning_.  
   
"That's not what you said last night," Bert stage-whispers, in the faint hope that that's going to be enough to put him off. It isn't. The dude just rolls his eyes – actually _rolls his eyes_ , what the fuck, who even does that? – and starts to grind his hips unabashedly against Bert's, still making these fucking _noises_ , and Bert's only human, okay? It's slowly starting to dawn on him that they're both stubborn fucks without much in the way of shame, and that this is _not_ going to end well.  
   
Right. Executive action. Bert is going to step this up a crucial gear into _okay-seriously-uncomfortable-now_ territory. The guy's going to say something along the lines of "Woah, not cool, man", and he's going to try to laugh it off, and then Bert's going to make a swift and surreptitious exit to the bathroom so he can take care of this really inconvenient boner, and _then_ he can maybe think about coming back for this guy's number. Or, like, his name or something. Yeah.  
   
He can do this. Making people uncomfortable is what he's good at.  
   
"You want me to fuck you?" he says, loudly enough that anyone still standing around for the show will have heard it. "Fuck, I bet you're a fucking freak." Bert plumbs the depths of his knowledge of this kind of thing, but something about the maddeningly inadequate friction he's getting through his jeans is short-circuiting something in his brain and the best he can come up with is, "Maybe I'd tie you up, get you all worked up and not let you come, you like that?"  
   
(He hears how ridiculous it sounds as it leaves his mouth, starts counting beers and gives up when he gets to seven.)  
   
Nothing. Maybe the slightest flicker of a primly disapproving frown at _freak_ , as if the dude's about to launch into some lecture on political correctness with regard to kinky sex or something, but apart from that – absolutely nothing. No awkwardness, not even a trace of confusion, and the guy is still very much _right there_. Fuck, what is his problem? Bert realizes belatedly said depths of knowledge don't really run deep enough, and that this might not actually have been the best way to go.  
   
"Fuck, _yeah_ ," says the guy, voice rough, his head tipping back and his eyes fluttering closed, but he's still wearing that shit-eating grin. "Then what? You choke me? Get your hands around my neck – no, fuck, a collar, you'd want your other hand free – scratch me up, leave me some bruises? You make me lick if off you if I come before you say I can? Come on, baby, don't leave me hanging."  
   
Bert's train of thought doesn't so much falter as stop dead. " _Jesus_ ," he breathes, awed. The whacked-out game or whatever the fuck it was (he's actually starting to suspect he's just been comprehensively seduced, not that he minds) is completely forgotten, as is the trick to forming coherent sentences and words of more than two syllables. "Shit, you're fucking _filthy._ I think I loveyou."  
   
And because this dude is apparently even more of a dick than Bert, he just grins and rolls his hips again, slow and dirty, and looks pointedly downwards. "Yeah, I can tell."  
   
"Fuck you," says Bert intelligently.  
   
"You wanna?" asks the dude, casually reaching down to palm at his own crotch.  
   
Bert might be drunk, but not so much that he doesn't realize something's shifted here. He licks his lips. "I – fuck. Yeah."  
   
The guy's smile broadens, and Bert is suddenly reminded of a cat with a canary feather poking out of the corner of its mouth. He slides easily off Bert's lap and sweeps out of the room without looking behind him. Quinn's laughing his ass off, of course, but Bert gives him the finger and stumbles across the room after him.  
   
Bert absolutely _does not_ trip over the coffee table because he's too busy staring at the guy's ass.   
    
 

+ 

  
  

   
"Gerard," says Gerard, offering his come-sticky hand to Bert.  
   
"Bert," says Bert, taking it and then wiping his own hand off on someone's ruined sheets. Sprawled out next to him, Gerard's mind seems to be running along similar lines.  
   
"It'll wash out," he says, sounding neither convinced nor concerned.  
   
"Whatever," agrees Bert. There's a brief pause as they bask in the combined warmth of afterglow and the comforting knowledge that it's someone else's problem.  
   
This pretty much sets the tone for the entirety of their not-relationship.   
    
    
    
    
 

  


_ii._  
 _Who'd I Do This For? (Me or You)_    
  

  


   
It's often said that violence is not the answer. Frank is currently sitting on Bert's shoulders, grinding his face into the floor while the assembled crowd yell catcalls and encouragement.  
   
Frank couldn't agree more. Violence is the question, and the answer is _fuck yes_. Bert makes a feeble, involuntary noise, and Frank carries on for a few more seconds, digging his knee into Bert's shoulder and wondering idly how many more degrees he can twist Bert's arm before he does the kind of damage that leads to assault charges and expensive lawsuits.  
   
Reluctantly, he gets up, making sure to spit in Bert's hair before he does. On his way out of the house, he grabs the half-finished beer out of someone's hand and drains the rest of it. The bottle shatters on the floor behind him when he drops it, and he's smiling when he walks out of the front door with the bass still throbbing in his veins. He turns out into the street, digging out his cell phone as he goes. It's been a good night, beer and music and a quick handjob in the bathroom from that pierced blonde chick in his psych class. He's still restless, though, not quite satisfied, and he knows exactly what it is he needs.  
   
"It's Frank," he says, as soon as Gerard picks up, because wasting time on pleasantries is for people with nothing (and no one) better to do. "You, me, my dick. As soon as you can get your ass over here."  
   
"Mm. You know I can never resist your pillow talk," drawls Gerard, smirking audibly. He lets out a long breath, crackly over the cell line, and Frank imagines him letting out a lungful of pale smoke.  
   
But then Gerard hums again and says lazily, "I don't know, Frank. I already had plans for tonight."  
   
"If it was McCracken, don't bother. I just kicked the shit out of him. He's, like, one giant bruise. It was awesome."  
   
Gerard groans, exasperated. "Oh my _god_. Seriously? This is, like, the third time this month you've cock-blocked me like this. Can we make a rule here, or something? Next time one of you beats up someone I was planning to sleep with, you have to fuck me yourself instead. Deal?"  
   
"That was the plan," says Frank, smirking. He's a smart guy and he knows it, but he's still buzzing, a little punch-drunk, and it takes him a second to untangle the implication there. "Hey," he says, as it sinks in. "Hey, wait. It's like you _want_ us to fight over you or something."  
   
Gerard's voice turns maybe-mocking, deceptively sweet and intimate, and Frank imagines him tossing his greasy hair and batting his eyelashes. Frank's brain supplies the word _winsome_ , and he instinctively looks over his shoulder to make sure no one heard him thinking it; he'd never live it down. "Gosh," Gerard sighs, "You two fighting over me like Palamon and Arcite. I'm a lucky, lucky girl."  
   
"Palamon and Arcite _liked_ each other," Frank points out, because Gerard's going to have try harder than that to catch him out with a pretentious literary reference. "And fuck you, okay, we do _not_ fight over you."  
   
"It wasn't me who said you did. Kind of Freudian, don't you think?"  
   
Frank decides the best thing to do here is defend his main point. "We don't!" he says, "I kick his ass because he's a fucking obnoxious dickwad asshole, not because I'm fucking _jealous_ or something..."  
   
Gerard just laughs, and ends the call.  
   
He comes over anyway.  
   
Frank doesn't usually let Gerard indulge his thing for biting – why should he, right? – but this time he deliberately tips his head back, exposing his throat, and moans encouragement when Gerard mouths hungrily at the skin. The next day, he wears an ancient t-shirt with a stretched-out neckline, and even though he gets soaked when it rains, it's totally worth it for Bert's face when he sees the livid bruise between Frank's shoulder and his neck.   
    
    
    
    
 

 _

iii.

_  
 _

That's What You Get (When You Think About Him)

_  

  

   
"What does he – oh, _fuck_ – what does he even have that I don't, huh?"  
   
Gerard pulls off Bert's cock, sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "For a _start_ ," he says pointedly, "he doesn't ask fucking stupid questions when I'm trying to blow him."  
   
Bert can admit that his timing there wasn't exactly perfect. "Sorry," he says contritely, less because he's actually sorry and more because he was much happier a minute ago when Gerard's mouth was on his dick. Gerard heaves a put-upon sigh – such a fucking diva, seriously – and sinks back down, and Bert forgets all about pretty much everything.   
    
 

+

   
  

   
Afterwards, when Gerard is trying to simultaneously get into his jeans and shirt while doing his best to maintain an air of haughty detachment, Bert ashes onto the floor and says, "And he's a fucking pretentious asshole. I hate that. Acts like he's the motherfucking second coming because he _reads_. It's like, no one even gives a shit, you know?"  
   
Gerard gives him a Look, the effect of which is not remotely lessened by his back-to-front shirt, one sock and sex hair. "Seriously?" he says. "We're still on this? I mean, you do know I fuck other people, right? You could pick one of them to obsess over."  
   
Just for that, Bert decides not to mention the whole back-to-front-shirt thing. He takes an angry drag on his cigarette and stifles the minor coughing fit it elicits. Let someone else point it out; let Gerard try to be mysterious and tragic and disdainful when someone else asks him if putting on a shirt is too challenging for him. The annoying thing is, he probably _will_. He'll make it into some grand statement about oppression by the fucking dominant paradigm or something.  
   
"I don't _obsess_ over him, fucker," says Bert lamely when he realizes Gerard has gotten bored with waiting for an answer and has gone back to looking for his other sock. Bert determinedly doesn't think about what Frank would be like in bed. Eventually, Gerard locates the elusive sock hanging nonchalantly over the lampshade, pulls it on and steps back into his battered, never-unlaced converse. He then looks at Bert again.  
   
"Alright," he says, "Here's the deal. I am so fucking _sick_ of you two pulling each other's motherfucking pigtails. Do everyone a favor, just go and fuck it out of your systems or something? Also, you have come in your hair."  
   
With that, he leaves, closing the door behind him.  
   
"I'm not fucking Iero. I might catch something," Bert says to the door.   
    
    
    
    
 

 _

iv.

_  
 _

The Boys You Do (Get Back At You)

_  

  

   
Frank pauses in the act of wrenching Bert's head back. "Woah," he says. "Déjà vu, man."  
   
"Right? Me too!" agrees Bert, stopping with his teeth millimeters from Frank's wrist.  
   
"ENOUGH," roars someone – Brian – and then there's a hand in the back of Frank's shirt, another one tight around his arm, dragging him backwards. Frank shakes his head clear of the red mist to see Bob forcibly restraining Bert, who's still spitting and snarling like a wild dog. Frank sticks his tongue out just to watch Bert hiss and lunge at him. While Bob is cursing and hauling him back, Frank takes advantage of the distraction to discreetly adjust his jeans. It isn't his fault his dick totally misinterpreted Bert sitting on him, okay?  
   
"Alright," says Brian, keeping a firm hold on Frank. "You two are gonna fucking – "  
   
"Sort out your fucking issues, and you're doing it _right now_ ," finishes Bob, in a low, threatening growl that's _almost_ enough to stop Frank sniggering to himself at "you're doing it right now".  
   
But before he gets the chance to reflect further on how deeply unfair it is to everyone else that he gets to be so good-looking, intelligent and hilarious to boot, he's being dragged unceremoniously across the floor and out of the room. A great cheer goes up behind them as he and Bert are shoved towards an open door, and it takes him a single, crucial second too long to figure it out.  
   
And then the two of them have been bundled into a dark, cramped space and the door has swung shut and locked with a self-satisfied _click_.  
   
It's a closet.  
   
He's locked in a closet.  
   
He's locked in a closet with _Bert McCracken._  
   
Bert seems to have reached a similar conclusion.  
   
"Motherfuckers!" he yells, hammering at the door. "Brian, I'm gonna cut your fucking dick off, and _then_ – "  
   
The rest of his threat is drowned by a roar of laughter from the other side of the door. Frank thinks he even hears a volley of high-fives.  
   
And then, as if things weren't bad enough, he thinks he feels something crawling down his neck and nearly takes his own eye out in his panicked attempt to bat it away.  
   
Bert sniggers.  
   
"Ahhhh, is the little baby scared of the dark?" he coos.  
   
"I am _not_ ," Frank mumbles furiously, kicking out at what he's reasonably sure is Bert's shin. He's not afraid of the dark, as such. It's more the giant, mutant spiders undoubtedly lurking _in_ the dark that he's got a problem with. He gropes for a witty and sophisticated comeback – there's really no way that he can see to work a _your mom_ joke in here, so instead he settles for, "The dark is scared of your _face_."  
   
A burst of the unhinged giggle that makes Frank's skin crawl; the scratchy noise of a hand rubbing over stubble. "It is now. You've wrecked my good looks, fucker."  
   
Frank leans back against what he really, really hopes is a fake fur coat. "Nah," he says. "I figure it's an improvement." He feels something warm and fuzzy coil in his gut as he imagines the epic black eye Bert's going to have tomorrow morning.  
   
"Ooh, that was _low_ ," says Bert, but there's no heat in it. "Nice fucking left hook, though," he adds thoughtfully, after a long moment of silence.  
   
"Thanks," Frank says automatically, then he remembers who he's talking to and mentally kicks himself. He tests the throbbing spot just under his ribs with a tentative finger, and winces. That's going to bruise.  
   
"You're not so bad yourself," he admits reluctantly, and then as silence falls, reality kicks back in.  
   
He's locked in a closet with Bert fucking McCracken, and it's all Gerard's fault.  
   
"This is all Gerard's fault," says Bert darkly, and Frank momentarily forgets all about hating the dude's skeevy ass and disagreeing violently with everything he says.  
   
"I _know!_ " Frank bangs his fist experimentally against the door, to see if it's still as locked as it was two minutes ago. It is. Ow. "Like," he says, "Like. Him. And all his stupid fucking..." he trails off, waving his hands in a gesture vaguely demonstrative of _Gerard-ness_. Bert obviously can't see it in the dark, but he seems to get it anyway.  
   
"Right?" The brief pause during which Bert seems to be thinking is genuinely one of the most alarming things Frank has ever experienced. Then, he says, "Hey. You know what I'm gonna do?"  
   
"What?"  
   
"I'm gonna make out like we're cool, you know? But secretly, I'll be waiting for, like, my _moment_. And _then_ – " he pauses dramatically for effect, " – toothpaste in his hair while he sleeps."  
   
"Dude." Frank is grudgingly impressed. "That's fuckin' nasty. He's gonna have to _shower_."  
   
"I _know_. And I'm not stopping at his hair." Bert sounds positively gleeful. Frank pictures his manic grin, then stops after a second when the mental image gets too fucking scary.  
   
He shifts his weight onto his other foot, and feels something solid and heavy pressing against his ankle. Experimentally, he moves again, and this time he's rewarded with a familiar clinking and a muted sloshing noise. Frank leans down and feels around until his questing fingers close around the neck of a bottle. He lifts it slowly, testing the weight of it.  
   
"No way," he breathes. "No fucking way. They locked us in the closet _with the motherfucking booze stash._ "   
    
 

+

   
  

   
Half an hour later, Frank finds himself gloriously drunk and pouring his heart out to Bert McCracken.  
   
"I mean," he says. "I mean." He stops, trying to recapture his train of thought and remember exactly what it is he means. "I mean, he's a bitchy, nasty fucking – fucking emo kid. And, and he smells. Like, not as bad as you. But still, pretty bad. I don't even _like_ him." He breaks off to peer suspiciously at where he thinks Bert's face is. "I still hate you, you fucking asshole," he says. "You know. Just so we're clear on that."  
   
"S'okay," says Bert amicably. "I still think you're a dirty motherfucking scumbag. Carry on."  
   
"...On? Oh, right. Right. Anyway. Like, I don't even _like_ him. I think – I think maybe sometimes I _could_ , you know? And then he goes and acts like a whiny little bitch again, and I'm all, nah. But – you know, I really _, really_ like having sex with him. And that should be, like, no big deal, right? So why am I getting all, all..."  
   
He waves his arms descriptively, narrowly avoiding catching Bert in the eye again.  
   
"You're, like," says Bert, in a tone of deep reverence. "Dude. That was amazing. You, you. Just. Took the words right outta my fuckin' mouth."  
   
"Thanks. You're welcome. Uh. Sorry?" says Frank, unsure which one is appropriate to the situation. There's a long silence, while they contemplate their respective moral stances. And then,  
   
"You know what we should do?" says Bert slowly, in the tone of one imparting a life-changing revelation. "We should _get even_."   
  

    
    
    
   
 _

v.

_  
 _

I ~~Love~~ Hope Something Eats You.

_  

  

   
Gerard pushes open the back door, digging a smoke and a lighter out of the pocket of his favorite spray-on jeans. Unless he's really misjudged this – and, really, is that likely? – there's about an eighty-five per cent chance the blonde guy with the girlfriend who he was making fuck-me eyes at will follow him. Fuck art, he's got this down to a motherfucking _science_. God, he's good. He exhales, enjoying the cool air after the close warmth of the house.  
   
A pair of hands wrap themselves around his hips and he tips his head back, smirking.  
   
"Couldn't stay away, huh?" he drawls on a breathy laugh. It's so easy it almost feels like cheating. He'd feel bad – wait, what's he saying? No he wouldn't.  
   
"Arrogant fucker," says a rough, smirking voice from somewhere close to his ear as the hands stray towards his belt buckle.  
   
Gerard stops. He knows that voice. " _Bert?_ " he says, his voice flipping from seductive to bitchy in under three seconds. "What the _fuck?_ " He'd been looking forward to that blonde dude.  
   
The soft huff of an almost-laugh, a hot mouth by his other ear. "Isn't that kind of redundant by now?"  
   
That's not Bert.  
   
Gerard grins like the fucking cheshire cat. This is better than he could have hoped for. He leans back into Bert and feels Frank mouthing at that spot on his neck, Bert grinning into his hair, their hands on him. _Yes_.   
    
 

+ 

  
  

   
"If there's not an empty room around here somewhere – " says Frank, as the three of them stumble up the narrow staircase.  
   
" – Then we're gonna have to _make_ one empty," Bert cuts in. Frank pauses to beam radiantly at Bert.  
   
"You're so _efficient_ ," he says. Bert grins back and slaps Frank's ass.  
   
For Gerard, watching this exchange is sort of like falling down the rabbit hole and seeing a talking caterpillar or something equally bizarre.  
   
"I still hate you," adds Frank conversationally, as they reach the top of the stairs.  
   
"You too, motherfucker," Bert says sunnily, planting a sloppy kiss on Frank's cheek. Frank shoves him and squirms away, laughing. Gerard hides a smile.  
   
"In here," Frank says, shouldering open what looks promisingly like a bedroom door. There's a couple in there already, a girl with her head tucked into a guy's shoulder and her hand in his pants.  
   
"Out," orders Bert, as the two of them look up, startled. Gerard thinks it says a lot about the steamrollering force of Bert's personality that all Bert has to do is stand there and tap his foot impatiently. They look positively guilty, scrambling off the bed and out of the door without another word.  
   
"That was easy," he says, impressed.  
   
"Not really," says Frank. "She's meant to be dating that guy with the dreads. He's gonna be _pissed_ when he finds out. Pants off, fucker."  
   
Gerard snorts. "Charming. Your mom never tell you to buy a girl dinner first?"  
   
He was going to say something else after that, but suddenly Bert's kissing him and he's so surprised he sort of loses his thread. Bert hardly ever kisses; Gerard had forgotten how good he is. He relaxes against Bert, making a low happy noise as Bert tugs at his hair and slides a hand under his shirt. This is so different, so un-Bert-ish, slow and ostentatious –  
   
 _Oh_. That's what it is, he's putting on a show, kissing deep and dirty while Frank watches hungrily. Well, Gerard thinks, yeah. He could get on board with that, actually. He curls one hand around the back of Bert's neck, moaning and arching into him.  
   
So easy, it almost feels like cheating.  
   
He slides a hand down between them, toying with Bert's zipper. No need to rush, after all. Bert smiles against his mouth and catches his wrist.  
   
"Oh, no," he says. "You don't get to do that."  
   
Gerard's breath catches slightly. "Yeah? What're you gonna do, asshole?"  
   
Bert huffs a laugh, and before Gerard's quite realized what's happened Bert is working his jeans and his boxers down his thighs and maneuvering him easily onto the bed. Well, alright. He's not going to pretend he isn't enjoying this. Bert licks up Gerard's neck as he unzips his own pants and Gerard keens, feeling Frank's eyes all over him. He darts a quick glance through his hair across the room, and draws in a quick, sharp breath. Frank is leaning against the door, his jeans pulled down just far enough, his eyes big and dark. He's stroking himself lazily, biting down slightly on his lip like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.  
   
Gerard maybe licks his own lips. Maybe. But Frank looks fucking _good_ , okay.  
   
"You like that, Gerard?" Frank asks softly. Gerard makes a choked-off noise roughly approximate to _yes_ ; it looks like Bert isn't the only one who can still surprise him.  
   
He pulls himself together. "You like to watch?" he retorts, but his voice is uneven because Bert's hands are skimming strangely, teasingly lightly over his skin and he's already thinking that there's no fucking way this is the last time they're doing this.  
   
Bert makes an impatient noise, tugging Gerard's hips up off the mattress, and Gerard shifts obligingly onto his hands and knees. And Frank's just – _there_ , still watching everything. God, Gerard thinks proudly, he has the _best_ ideas.  
   
"Frank?" says Bert.  
   
"Oh," says Frank. "Fuck – hang on..." There's a rustling noise, then Frank's across the room and putting something into Bert's hand, the sound of something tearing, and then there are slick fingers pushing into Gerard.  
   
Gerard lets out a breathy laugh. "Oh my _god_. You brought lube? Seriously? How long have you even been planning this?"  
   
He thinks someone says something in response to this, but Bert does this thing with his fingers that feels fucking _awesome_ and he sort of forgets to listen. Fuck, Bert's never done that before, but – but Frank has. Oh, god, they've talked about this, about what he likes, about the best ways to make him scream. That should _not_ be fucking with his head like this, but he makes a slight, involuntary noise at the thought. This is so much better than he could have hoped for. Frank's talking, but Gerard doesn't really give a shit about what he's saying right now; it probably isn't important anyway. He rocks his hips back against Bert's hand, imagining how desperate, how needyhe looks. The _best_ ideas, seriously.  
   
Bert slides his fingers back out suddenly, and Gerard flinches at the loss. "Fuck, give a guy some warning, at least," he complains.  
   
"Oh, come _on_." Bert's voice sounds over the distinctive rustle of a condom wrapper. "Like you don't get off on this."  
   
"On what, you being a dick?" Gerard snipes back. He shifts his knees a little wider apart, getting comfortable. The continuous bickering with Bert is kind of reassuring. He has this recurring nightmare sometimes where he's half a perfect couple with a perfect, picket-fence life; it scares the shit out of him.  
   
"You guys are so fucking _married_ ," says Frank.  
   
"Shut up, Frank," say Bert and Gerard as one.  
   
"Feeling left out?" adds Gerard, not even bothering to hide his smirk. Frank swallows visibly, and Gerard shivers.  
   
"Do you _ever_ stop talking?" bitches Frank, and Gerard opens his mouth to make some cutting comment about stones and glass houses, but Bert gets there first.  
   
"You think you could do something about that?" he says, his fingers curling teasingly around Gerard's hips.  
   
There's something almost predatory in Frank's answering smile, and Gerard thinks that he could _definitely_ get used to this. The mattress protests as Frank climbs on. He gets his hands in Gerard's hair (Gerard will admit that he maybe has a bit of thing about that; Bert worked it out and apparently told Frank), and he thinks as he takes Frank's cock into his mouth that alright, maybe they have a point. He certainly isn't talking anymore. Frank starts to thrust into Gerard's mouth, tipping his head back and murmuring nonsense. Gerard tongues at the head of Frank's dick, humming contentedly around him, and if he could have smiled when Frank lets out a choked-off shout he totally would. Maybe they _have_ shared, like, tips on Things To Do To Gerard Way In Bed or what the fuck ever, but it isn't like he's a total disadvantage here.  
   
Then, Gerard feels Bert pushing into him, and he maybe goes to pieces a little from the heat and the stretch and the fullness. Not being able to talk might not be a bad thing right now, because he's pretty sure if he could he'd be making some really, really embarrassing noises. Because – fuck. It's so good, both of them at once, both of them hot and hard and _his_ , for now. His; he did that to them. It's a nice thought.  
   
"Oh, _fuck_ , I'm – " Frank begins, and that's all the warning Gerard gets before Frank's coming hard, and pulling away, panting. Gerard grimaces, and spits onto the sheets, but with Bert still fucking him it's difficult for him to stay annoyed.  
   
"Frank, you should – Jesus _fuck_ , Gerard – you should tell him how good he looks. He fucking loves that. Little attention whore." Bert's close too, Gerard can tell by the ragged edge in his voice and the slight falter in his rhythm, but that somehow doesn't matter, because Frank's flashing a lazy, afterglow-bright grin at Bert.  
   
"So good," he says, sounding hoarse and fucked-out. "So fucking _good_ , you don't even... shit, I'm gonna be jacking off to this for fucking _months._ So hot, the way you just – "  
   
"One of you," interrupts Gerard, "Had better – _ah_ – had better fucking get me off." Because as much as he appreciates Frank's efforts (i.e., more than he'd willingly admit), he has more immediate concerns right now. He moans, low and rough and filthy, when he feels Bert's hand wrap around his dick, working in time with his hips, and, _fuck_ , yeah. That's perfect, just what he needed; he's closer than he'd thought and it only takes a few more clumsy strokes before he's shaking and coming. He's dimly aware of Bert following him over the edge a few seconds later, but he hardly notices. He feels warm and spent and boneless, slumping against the sticky sheets when Bert pulls out and trying to restrain the massive, stupid grin he can feel spreading itself over his face. Bert ties off the end of the condom and flicks it onto the floor.  
   
"You're gross," he says to Gerard. Gerard smiles beatifically at him. He suspects he has some of Frank's come on his chin and he doesn't even want to think about what his hair looks like. He doesn't doubt it, nor does he care.  
   
"I still hate you, you know," Frank says to Bert, although there's enough of the warm post-orgasm haze left in him that there's no venom in it.  
   
"The feeling is mutual, asswipe," says Bert, yawning and deliberately sprawling into Frank's space. Frank pulls his hair; Bert gives him a half-hearted Chinese burn.  
   
"You guys," Gerard says, as sincerely as he can, "Are _so smart._ "  
   
He's always said that the best way to get someone to do something is to make them believe it was their idea in the first place.


End file.
